Mr Clinton Barton, Master Assassin
by testudoaubreii1806
Summary: Mr Clinton Barton is a man of shining parts and he's on a mission to take out the infamous Black Widow. Let's just hope he doesn't make a cake of himself. Regency Clintasha AU one-shot


A/N: This fic is a result of having just read a Georgette Heyer novel and wishing to cheer my sister up when she was feeling down so it's not meant to be taken too seriously!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and not for profit. I don't own any of the Marvel characters.

 **Mr Clinton Barton, Master Assassin**

Mr Clinton Barton was not a usual patron of Almack's. In fact it had taken all of Lady Hill's influence with Lady Jersey to obtain him a voucher for that evening. As he stepped out of his carriage on King Street he presented all the appearance of a man of fashion; his cravat was perfectly tied in a snowy waterfall at his throat, his coat fit like a glove, and the buckles on his silk knee-breeches were shining. He reached into his pocket to check the time on his gold fob watch; fashionably late, just as planned.

In his other pocket however, was one of a pair of Manton's duelling pistols. Only for extreme circumstances of course. A master assassin had far more subtle ways of taking out a target.

Clint, as he was known to his friends, showed his voucher at the entrance and strode in through the hallway. The ballroom at the end was filled with dazzling light from the many chandeliers and underneath them the cream of the ton talked and danced and made the most of being in a locale where only those from the very most fashionable sets were allowed.

On occasion Clint enjoyed a country dance, but he was not generally one for balls such as these. He found most of the ladies insipid and the conversation dull. But tonight he was here for other reasons. The intelligence agency he worked for had received a tip-off that there was going to be an attempt on Lord Debenham's life that night by none other than the notorious Russian agent, the Black Widow. Mr Barton had been assigned to prevent this and put her out of action.

No one was sure what the Black Widow looked like, but she never left any doubt as to her victims' killer. Clint only hoped he managed to stop her before she reached that point. Lord Debenham was an important political figure and his assassination would have far reaching consequences.

Fully embracing his role as a fastidious gentlemen, Clint pulled out his quizzing glass and looked round for someone he knew. It couldn't be that hard to spot a Russian agent amongst a sea of English women, but he would get nowhere without an introduction.

He soon spotted Lady Hill talking to Lady Jersey over near the entrance to the Card Room and went over to greet her. Despite being the wife of a baronet, albeit estranged, Lady Maria Hill was actually second in command at the secretive intelligence agency they both worked for.

"Mr Barton, so pleased you could be here," she responded coolly, "I don't believe you have met Lady Jersey. Lady Jersey, Mr Barton."

Clint made a leg. "I am honoured to meet you, my lady, and much in your debt for allowing me a voucher this evening."

"Not at all, my dear Mr Barton. We are always ready to welcome distinguished gentlemen such as yourself to our circles. Now I'm afraid I must leave you as, I must go and ask Lady Grasmere about her latest beau."

"Any sign of the target then?" Clint asked in a low voice as Lady Jersey strode off regally to talk to her friend.

"Not yet, but you better get mingling, Barton; our source didn't say when the attempt was likely to take place."

Clint glanced over to where Lord Debenham was speaking to some acquaintances; he seemed all right for now, but the sooner he identified the Black Widow the better.

"Yes, ma'am. I know just the person to introduce me to all the ladies."

Lady Hill moved off to talk to Princess Esterhazy and Clint strolled over to where a man whose fashionableness threatened to outdo Beau Brummell and whose notoriety rivalled that of Lord Byron was entertaining a circle of fawning women.

"Well, Mrs Amesbury, perhaps I'll take you for ride in my high-perch phaeton tomorrow." The ladies tittered and giggled.

Mr Anthony Stark was a notable rake and one of the richest men in England. He was also a somewhat eccentric inventor, but when you had £20,000 a year, these things never really seemed to matter.

Mr Stark frowned as Clint walked over. "Oh, Mr – uh..."

"Barton," Clint supplied.

"Yes, Mr Barton. I definitely remember you from that place where we met before. How pleasant to see you again. Can I introduce you to Mrs Amesbury?"

Clint bowed to Mrs Amesbury, but it was pretty clear she wasn't a Russian agent. He glanced over the rest of the group, but none stood out.

"So, Mr Barton, I hear you're recently down from the country?" Mrs Amesbury asked.

"Yes, I'm in town on business, but thought I might as well make the most of the season."

"Business," Mr Stark said disparagingly, "I make a point to never get involved in that."

The ladies simpered some more and Clint was reminded of the reason why he generally didn't like these parties. "So who else should I know this season then?"

Miss Burstall a notorious flirt and equally notorious gossip was only too happy to oblige and pointed out all the newcomers and newly launched heiresses of the season.

"That's Miss Charsfield, she has £10,000. That's Miss Horringer, she has only £3,000, but stands to inherit significantly more and a title when her uncle dies, and that's Mrs Rushman, a young widow recently arrived from overseas. No one knows her fortune, but it's rumoured to be significant."

Mrs Rushman instantly drew Clint's attention. She had stunning auburn hair caught up in the latest fashion and wore a fine gown of deep red, respectable enough for a widow, but still showing a fair amount of décolletage. Not only had she come from abroad, but there was something about her look that wasn't quite English.

Clint pulled out his quizzing glass again. "So do you know from where she has arrived?"

"Well it seems she is Prussian, but married an Englishman and had been living in Austria until her husband died and she decided to come and visit the land of his birth."

"Interesting. Can you introduce me?"

"Oh, I'm afraid not. She seems very select about who she speaks to. Mr Stark might be able to, though."

"What's that?" asked Mr Stark, breaking off from his latest flirtation.

"Would you have the kindness to introduce me to Mrs Rushman?"

Mr Stark frowned.

"The red-headed widow, recently arrived from Austria?"

"Oh, her. Come with me."

Mr Stark was never one to stick to propriety and left his admirers as easily as he'd found them, with Clint following in his wake. Mrs Rushman was drinking a glass of punch watching the dancers and smiled politely as they came over.

"Mr Stark, how charming to see you again," she said, with only a slight accent. "And who is your fine companion?"

"Mrs Rushman; Mr Barton." Mr Stark might have gone on to say more, but his attention was caught by a finely dressed lady with strawberry-blonde hair who was nearby. "Lady Virginia, care for a dance?" he asked casually.

"Oh, what a shame!" the lady replied, "My dance card is full again," but there was a twinkle of merriment in her eye.

Clint turned back to his new acquaintance. "Mrs Rushman, will you stand up with me?"

"Oh, I never dance," she said coldly, turning to look away from him in evident disinterest. Or perhaps not, as when Clint followed her gaze he saw Lord Debenham entering the card room.

"Perhaps you would prefer a game of faro?" Clint suggested.

"No, thank you. My late husband never approved of gaming."

"Oh, I am sorry. I never had the honour of knowing your husband. I hear he spent considerable time abroad."

"Indeed," Mrs Rushman was clearly not one for small talk.

"Would you allow me to procure you another glass of punch?"

"Please do." Mrs Rushman handed him her empty glass, but by the time Clint returned she was gone. Clint bestowed the glasses of punch on a passing couple and strode off to the card room, having a feeling where she might have gone.

He slipped into the room and began circling, affecting to watch the players but keeping an eye out for a certain redhead. He had just got caught up in watching a rather engrossing game of vingt-et-un when he heard a slightly accented voice behind him.

"Are you following me, Mr Barton?" Mrs Rushman raised her eyebrows. "And you didn't even bring my punch."

"I thought you didn't enjoy games, Mrs Rushman."

"Oh, only card games, Mr Barton."

Clint suddenly noticed how green her eyes were. But then he caught himself; he was on a mission here. A mission to take out this very woman.

"So have you been in the country long, Mrs Rushman?"

"Oh, I arrived last week. I must admit I am finding some of your customs rather strange. How long does it take a man to obtain a glass of punch here?"

Clint had to admit he was finding it hard to maintain the air of a man of fashion whilst being assailed by Mrs Rushman.

"My apologies, ma'am. Do you care to accompany me?" he said, holding out his arm.

"No," she replied politely and looked at him meaningfully until he left to fetch the drinks.

Clint returned to the ballroom, but didn't step over to the refreshments immediately. The Black Widow was good. She had very neatly manoeuvred him into a position where he knew she wouldn't be there when he returned, but he couldn't attempted to watch her again without bringing the drinks he had promised.

"Having a pleasant evening so far, Mr Barton?" asked Lady Hill as she walked past with Countess Lieven.

"Yes, fine," replied Clint nonchalantly. _God dammit_. The Black Widow was probably already half way towards killing Lord Debenham and he had only just worked out who she was.

Cutting his losses and deciding he'd better not leave her unwatched he picked up two more glasses of punch and returned to the card room. No sooner had he passed through the doorway however, than he was accosted by Miss Burstall.

"Oh, Mr Barton! Would you care to join us for a rubber of whist?" She indicated her two companions. "And you brought me a glass of punch; how very kind of you."

Seeing an opportunity here Clint accepted and joined their table. He was an indifferent whist player, but had brought enough cash to cover any losses he might have to make and the pauses between turns would allow him to keep an eye on Mrs Rushman.

He glanced around the room from behind his cards, searching for her striking hair, but couldn't see her immediately.

"So, Mr Barton, are you intending to stay in town long?" Miss Burstall drew his attention back to the game. "Mrs Amesbury and I are making a party for Vauxhall Gardens next week along with Mr Stark and some other friends. Perhaps you'd like to come too?"

Clint couldn't think of anything worse, but right now his mind was occupied with other things and he merely said non-committally "How pleasant."

The game took rather more of his attention than he would have liked and Miss Burstall's increasing advances had to be repulsed, but eventually he managed to spot first Lord Debenham and, soon after, Mrs Rushman who was also at his table and had been previously been obscured by his Lordship. _Late husband indeed._

He kept an eye on her as play continued, sacrificing some of his skill for watching the Russian agent. Just as they were about to start the second rubber Lord Debenham's game finished and he got up and returned to the ballroom with the Black Widow on his arm.

"My apologies, ladies. I'm afraid I must leave you," Clint got up and bowed.

Miss Burstall tried to protest, but Clint was already leaving. He tried not to draw too much attention to himself as he hurried across the card room, but he'd be happier once he had Mrs Rushman in his sights again. Her exit on Lord Debenham's arm had seemed quite ominous.

There was no sign of either of them in the ballroom, so thinking they might be planning to leave, Clint continued to the entrance hall. It was not very busy as not many people were leaving yet, but he still could not see the pair.

"Has Lord Debenham left yet?" he asked a footman standing near the entrance way.

"No, sir," replied the footman diffidently, "I believe he is fetching Mrs Rushman's pelisse; there was some sort of mix up in the cloakroom."

"Thank you. Do you know where Mrs Rushman is?" Clint continued.

"She is waiting in the gallery, sir."

 _I suppose her husband was an art lover,_ Clint thought sardonically as he crossed the entrance hall and entered the gallery. Mrs Rushman was standing just near the door gazing up at a painting, but she turned to look at Clint as he entered.

"Mr Barton," she said, her voice betraying only the tiniest amount of surprise.

"Mrs Rushman," he said in return. He walked over to her and she tilted her head to one side questioningly.

"You call yourself a gentleman, Mr Barton, and yet you fail to even procure a simple glass of punch."

"Oh, I never said I was a gentleman," Clint replied and put his gun to her head.

The Black Widow barely blinked. "You and I both know you won't pull that trigger," she said calmly and as Clint looked into her defiant eyes he realised that there was more than one reason why that was the case.

They seemed to be at a stalemate for a few seconds, but then Mrs Rushman ducked away from the gun and brought her arm up to knock it out of his hand. Clint, who had anticipated this move, moved just as quickly as her and grabbed her arm to stop the swipe. Mrs Rushman dealt him a swift kick and the gun spun out of his hand and slid across the floor. As they fought Clint was impressed by the Black Widow's technique, in fact, he had to admit, if she wasn't somewhat hampered by her dress, she would easily be a match for him.

Clint was grateful for all the time he'd spent training at Gentleman Jackson's gym, but also for some moves that he'd learnt in not so respectable establishments, as he needed it all to keep up with the Black Widow's ruthless kicks and jabs.

In the end her dress did betray her and Mrs Rushman ended up on the floor with Clint on top of her pinning her down. He whipped out a knife and held it to her throat.

"Go ahead, kill me," she said, her eyes blazing. "If I fail in my mission I'll be dead anyway."

"I'm not going to kill you," Clint replied firmly, "but I can't let you go either. I can help you. Come back to my house-"

"Come back to your house? You really aren't a gentleman, are you, Mr Barton?"

"I can save you," Clint insisted.

"I don't need saving." She struggled in his grasp.

Just then they heard someone clear their throat at the entrance to the gallery and they both turned to see Lord Debenham standing there with Mrs Rushman's pelisse. "Oh, excuse me," he said obviously quite put out.

Clint struggled to his feet and helped Mrs Rushman up, quickly hiding his knife. "Oh, I do beg your pardon, my lord, I'm afraid poor Mrs Rushman here just swooned as I asked her to marry me."

"Oh, indeed?" Lord Debenham sounded even more put out. "And did she accept?"

Clint turned to look at the now furious Russian agent standing next to him. "Oh, yes," he replied, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," Lord Debenham said, handing Mrs Rushman her pelisse somewhat abruptly and then leaving.

"How dare you?" seethed the Black Widow as soon as he had left.

"Oh, quite easily," Clint assured her. "But if you'd rather he knew you were a Russian agent, I can arrange that."

"I would rather be dead than married to you."

"Charming," Clint replied. "You know, if we're to be married I should probably know your real name."

The Black Widow didn't respond and just glared at him as he held his arm out to her, but eventually she took it and as they left the gallery he thought he heard her mutter "Natasha".


End file.
